ARLENE ANG

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she edits the Italian
Niederngasse (www.niederngasse.com). Her poetry has recently appeared
in The Pedestal Magazine, Literati Review, Tattoo Highway, The
Adirondack Review and 2River View. She has received a nomination from
VLQ for the 2003 Pushcart Prize.

--------

WHERE PCS CANNOT WIRE THE GROUND WITH ENOUGH HEAT

indigo open-fires
through fluttering window
urgent moan crossing the room
in seven light years

first comes the lick of wind
cupping rounded space
then telescopic vision of a nude
holed with veined stars
tears welt afterwards down prickled skin
lashes wail a bansheed name

moon-patterned quilt quivers
and in the half-light awakens
drone of dial tone burns silence
as black modem sizzles,
quietly skips off-line

--------

BIRTHING CUBISM/ FEMINISM

Paris, 1908 -
that's all we know, and his indignant shout,
"Encores des cubes! Assez de cubisme!"

He was loitering with the Hanging Commitee
of the Salon des Indèpendants
when a painting of Georges Braque passed by.

A vagrant journalist published his words
on which Cubists assumed their name,
changed the history of art.

New York, 1948 -
that's all I know, and his indignant shout
"Still vegetables for tonight! I'm sick of it!"

He sent his wife with china cracked into her skull
to the Emergency Room of the State Hospital
when a plate of greens was all she could afford.

She was dumped in common grave with only his words
as epitaph - memory enough for his daughters
to assume their cause and change history for women.

--------

CLOUDBURST

High-wheeled clouds
sent the sun
scurrying for cover
behind
green-eared mountains

like a yellow fox
chased by
albino bloodhounds
and thunder-shoed horses.

Rain was dug-up grass
taking robin leaps
on gecko-leafed soil.

As the jaundiced fox
disappeared into
hound's jaws,
legs beaming
seesaw squeaks,

a whirlwind
on horselegs
ripped out yellow skin
from salivating mouth.

--------

LAGO MEDEA

Old fishermen's tale
would have Medea live
in the horn-scaled serpent
that nests at the bottom of the lake.

Never seek to make money
out of water, they say. Her mouth,
though toothless enough, can burn.
A millisecond spray of venom can liquify,
through camera and hands, your face.

Caged in pheromones,
she makes no heroes of men,
seduces with eternal scorn,
rips out aortae without asking
to feed her young - soft-shelled
snakelings stuffed for next day's meal.
Not even Medea could have done better.

--------

PHOENIX IN A RED CAVE

first
male lap is undressed
into love seat

dark ashes
of hair
kiss

as stravinsky
unfurls
firebird

then fingers
caress chords
on torsos

nipples
strain on
tight rings

and tongues
pirouette
on napes

king kaschei
dances infernal
friction

finale comes
with berceuse
on solo bassoon

trickle
of whiteness
falls curtain

--------

THREE SLICES AT HEALTH:
BOLOGNA TRADE FAIR 2002

1.
Pesticides and treated genes
waltz behind painted
organic and GMO-free masks
in multinational showrooms.

2.
Caged in a roofed edifice,
artificial park provides children
with indoor lake, real grass
and trees dying of yellow leaves.

3.
Behind a booth, a fat lady sings
of new-age methods - banned
slimming teas that flush
weight and health down the toilet.

--------

IN A TIME OF RAIN

I sleep
with my hair
wet

perhaps
to forget
I'm a snail

with legs
as Mick bad-joked
in another woman's poem.

My nape is stiff
when I wake up
most mornings,

my hair long enough
to net in any man,
though split ends

habitually spill
the daily catch
outside my door.

During the day
I thread my hair
into braids--

there is nothing
worse than a woman
who can't keep

her face tangle free.
I crave respect
enough

to scrape flakes
from scalp with patient
brushstrokes.

Evenings
after I wash my hair,
the cold slimy snakes

on my pillow help me
forget the wetness
between my legs.

--------

TROJAN STORM

Hail came first as if in ambush.
Night clouds quickly shot down cars
left behind the high rises of parking meters.

Then arrows of rain blew in sheets.
Too late I ran for cover behind dripping
windows that bat-flapped on their hinges.

Afterwards, silent fireworks signaled victory.
Thunderless disco lightning circled for hours
while I salvaged the floor from mud and leaves.

Every five hundred years, Trojan soldiers
must be given Saturday night off in heaven.